


religion's in your lips

by thetsunderemage



Series: we'd still worship this love [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Hilda Ship Exchange, Trust, skinny love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23667409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetsunderemage/pseuds/thetsunderemage
Summary: Be patient, be fine.Be balanced, be kind.For the Hilda Ship Exchange!
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Series: we'd still worship this love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704139
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29
Collections: Hilda Ship Exchange 2020





	religion's in your lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ajstyling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajstyling/gifts).



> I hope this brings a smile to your face.

Hilda rarely offers her services.

While her laid back nature was probably one of her more notable traits—second only, of course, to her charming personality—back in the academy, she has also been known to make exceptions for certain people. Claude, despite succeeding at thwarting her numerous attempts to pawn off her responsibilities, happens to fall under this category.

And no, it’s not because she felt obligated to, as his unofficial retainer—if that’s what you could call her. In fact, there had been times when she outright refused to do things for him. “It’s too much work,” she’d say, and he’d give her that look which didn’t quite fit the description of disappointment; she would later learn that it was more of concern, though it bothered her that she didn’t pick up on it sooner, especially since he often gave up on persuading her so easily.

Although Claude didn’t have absolute authority over her, she would sometimes find herself hoarding more library books than usual, much to Sylvain’s frustration. Her notes, which initially consisted of random doodles, eventually became a trove of actual, useful information with the occasional design ideas. Hanging out with Claude during her free time, instead of napping or seeking out Ferdinand for some tea, became a habit, and she’d always have her notes on hand in the _off chance_ that he didn’t feel like telling her about white camels and distant lands.

Or so she tells herself.

Whether she liked it or not, her eyes seemed to wander in his direction all the time. As gorgeous as he was, however, it wasn’t this aspect of his physical appearance that had her intrigued. She had lived in Goneril long enough to figure it out.

His suspiciously familiar features aside, he’d sometimes slip up and reveal that he knew far more than one would expect him to; she had to admit that it was quite amusing, watching him cover it up by reiterating that his position made him privy to certain pieces of information. Claude had that air of mystery about him that fueled an uncanny determination within her, which she didn’t even know existed, to keep searching for answers.

Unfortunately, keeping him under close watch also meant noticing things like the dark circles under his eyes or the fact that he would constantly be on his guard despite the low probability of danger. It was hard to miss when he was known as the easygoing house leader of the Golden Deer. People were wary of him, yes, but she didn’t think they went beyond the notion that there was simply something unsettling about him.

Claude had a goal, and he was tiring himself out trying to reach it. Hilda respected that.

But while she respected his dedication, it was painful to watch him deprive himself of everything that life had to offer.

“Live a little,” she’d said once as she watched him flit from one book to another with that serious look which she found frightening yet oddly attractive. You’d think he was trying to crack a secret code from the way he stared at the words so intently.

She was on the verge of falling asleep with the side of her head resting against her arms when he let out a nervous chuckle and a remark about how bored she probably was.

“I promise to tell you a story next time, okay?”

_No, not okay._

He would’ve protested had she pestered him further about taking a break, so she said nothing more, leaving him to his business.

She did, however, hold him to that promise.

And now, several years later, she finds joy in knowing that when he falls asleep on her lap like this, it’s not because she grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him away from the classroom as Byleth watched with the most disinterested look on their face.

Claude— _Khalid,_ she reminds herself—actually takes time off to seek her out. Hilda, of course, is always happy to oblige.

“You’re not gonna join me?”

When she looks down, he’s awaiting her response with eyes wide open. The bits of sunlight peeking through the leaves overhead make them glisten like gemstones.

_Stunning._

_Beautiful._

_Utterly magnificent._

She runs her fingers through his hair and across his face. He catches her hand before she can pull away, pressing her fingertips against his lips.

“What’s on your mind, Hilda?”

 _A_ _lot_ , she wants to say. Even in more peaceful times, there’s still tension in the air. It may appear minuscule in the grand scheme of things, but it’s there.

True to her word, she continues to make illustrations for Seteth’s stories. Sometimes, she would personally read them to some of the children in their territory; Holst considers building healthy relationships with their people integral to good governance and encourages this.

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll rule Goneril one day,” her brother had joked once as he watched her struggle with her third attempt at drawing a tortoise.

“As if that would ever happen.”

She resisted the urge to add that she disliked it when he hovered above her while she worked.

“I don’t know, Hilda. That bad mushroom almost got me.”

“It’s _because_ of you surviving that which makes me worry less.” For one thing, their meals—Holst’s, especially—are now thoroughly checked before being served. “Besides, as much as I love Goneril, ruling this place would be too much work.”

Instead of a scolding, the remark elicited a chuckle from Holst. She lifted her head to shoot him a questioning look.

“I must warn you then that being a queen is no different.”

It took her a moment to register the meaning behind her brother’s words. _Of course, Holst knows._ He must have been getting the wrong idea, however, if he was implying that she and...

“ _Claude?_ ”

“Yes, Hilda?”

She gently pulls her hand away to twirl a strand of her hair around her finger.

“I’m quite thirsty.”

He’s towering above her in a second with his hand stretched out for her to take.

“That works out,” he says as he helps her up. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

* * *

Hilda will admit that she may have been dishonest with Ferdinand about her knowledge—or supposed lack thereof—of tea brewing, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t pay attention when he so graciously offered to demonstrate his own method. While one might argue that her compliment was merely an attempt at flattery, she stands by what she said about his tea being _like love_.

So she selects just the right leaves and boils them just right, taking into account the room temperature and humidity. Once she has found the appropriate teapot, she proceeds to carefully pick out a special set of cups.

When she pours, she tries to replicate Ferdinand’s timing and technique.

_Like music._

“You’re getting better at this,” Claude says as the final drop lands, leaving a ripple that quickly dissipates in its wake.

She tries to remember if she put on some blush this morning. Annette did give her an exquisite shade that goes well with her skin as a gift when she visited the month before with Felix.

“You wanted to talk?”

He gestures for her to take a seat, which she does.

“As you know, I’ve had the opportunity to visit...well, _h_ _ome_.”

Hilda has half a mind to remind him that he can speak freely within their estate’s walls, but she holds her tongue. She’s been doing that a lot these days.

“I’m going to have to claim my birthright soon,” he continues.

He pauses to take a sip— _to stall, perhaps_. She watches as he lifts the cup closer to his face and finds herself mesmerized by the way his lips touch the gold rim.

Wait. _Mesmerized?_ No, she _wasn’t_.

Hilda’s gaze quickly shifts to her own cup—identical to that of Claude’s. The exterior is white, but the interior is her favorite shade of pink; both sides are decorated with an intricate golden floral design. Her eyes absently trace the rim as she waits for him to put an end to the silence.

“It’s quite a long trip from here.”

She forces herself to take a long sip.

_It’s fine. It’s fine._

“It’s faster on a wyvern,” he adds, “but then I’ll have my duties to attend to.”

By this time, Hilda has regained some of her composure and is giving him a knowing smile.

“Look at you, living up to your name, Mr. Leader Man.”

Something flashes in his eyes. She hates those eyes of his sometimes, for the sole reason that they’re as bright as they are clouded.

Yet she can’t bring herself to look away.

“You know my dream, Hilda.” There’s an air of caution is his tone—this one, she doesn’t miss. “I’ll still need your help, if that’s alright.”

“I remember,” she says, more reserved this time. “Don’t worry, nothing has changed.”

She hasn’t forgotten. In fact, the memory is still vivid in her mind, almost as if she hadn’t been drunk on both the liquor and the young man on her bed that night.

Perhaps it was the probability of death that kept her sober enough to remember the way he was practically slurring his words as he let her in on some of his carefully guarded secrets—his name, his fears, his reasons to live.

They didn’t die the following day.

She was worried that he regretted accepting her invitation to drink and opening up to her, thinking there’d be no tomorrow for one or both of them, but when he pulled her into a hug and pressed his lips against her neck in that oddly chaste way he had done so the night before, she allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—she had done something right.

It was on that same day that she vowed to help make his dreams a reality.

“Some things _have_ changed.”

“Not for me, they haven’t,” she countered.

The sound of her cup making contact with the saucer signals the end of the discussion.

* * *

Hilda wakes up to an empty space on the left side of her bed the next morning.

It takes her going in and out of sleep several times, but she eventually manages to drag herself out for breakfast. Holst is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee when she enters the dining area.

“I met our guest on his way out.”

The chair makes an irritating sound as she pulls it away from the table.

A flash of green flickers in her mind.

A silhouette basking in the sunlight.

An almost ethereal glow—gone the next time she opened her eyes.

The gentle flaps of a wyvern’s wings.

“And?”

She doesn’t miss the way Holst stares her left hand, as if _searching_ for something.

“At least try to be discreet,” she sighs.

Her brother remains unfazed, but he hasn’t donned his usual smile either.

“You must trust him a great deal.”

She feels the weight of the words hanging in the air tugging at her chest.

“I do.”

And she continues to do so, even as the letters arrive—not a single one bearing his name. When asked of his whereabouts, she simply writes back that, “Mr. Leader Man has some things to attend to,” thankful that there are ways to justify the ink stains on the parchment—for instance, “I drifted off the sleep,” or, “My hand slipped and I’m too lazy to write everything all over again.”

She continues to do so, even during her lessons in diplomacy with Holst, who seems impressed by her burst of motivation. She tries not to flinch when he makes use of real life examples, particularly concerning border issues.

She continues to do so, every waking moment, whether she realizes it or not.

She continues to do so until one day, when the breeze blows a little too oddly for her liking, sending her hair flying in multiple directions. As she grumbles about having to encounter such a misfortune on the one day she didn’t put her hair up in its usual style, she catches something in her peripheral vision.

A white wyvern clad in gold and black.

“Daydreaming?”

And just like that, the weight is lifted.

“My eyes seem to wander toward you of their own accord,” she responds calmly, “but what do I do when you’re not here?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

He’s standing in front of her now, his hands inches from her face, as if hesitating. Her patience must’ve been wearing thin as she finds herself grabbing both of them to press his palms against her cheeks.

For once, his eyes are as clear as the cloudless sky.

“I’m sorry. I won’t leave you ever again.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [the bird app](https://www.twitter.com/thetsunderemage)!


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